


A Longstanding Agreement Between Allies

by Fever_Dreams



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical spiders, Do Not Archive, Extra Treat, Finger Sucking, Forced to enjoy, I mean it's xeno so what even is anatomy?, Kinda?, Mind Control, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-23 15:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16621346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fever_Dreams/pseuds/Fever_Dreams
Summary: He wants to scream. He wants to fight.He wants to behave.Jon’s not sure how he got here. One minute he was behind the Institute, pulling out his pack of Silk Cuts and fishing for his lighter and the next--





	A Longstanding Agreement Between Allies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



He wants to scream. He wants to fight.

He _wants_ to behave.

Jon’s not sure how he got here. One minute he was behind the Institute, pulling out his pack of Silk Cuts and fishing for his lighter and the next--

He is sitting at a table, round and wooden with a small vase of flowers at the center. The hard angles of the chair dig into his back  but he can’t seem to muster the desire to shift to a more comfortable position. He’s not paralyzed, he knows he could move if only he wanted to.

_you must be still_

Jon sits, not moving, not wanting to move. He must be still. The desire to remain motionless in the straight backed, wooden chair is almost instinct. The muscles in his back protest the rigid position but he ignores it. Later. He takes comfort in that thought. Later, he’ll relax, but for now, he will not move, he will be still.

The room is bare. A blank, white wall bracketed on either side by blank, white walls. He hasn’t gathered the will to check behind him yet. The need to know itches in the back of his brain, growing harder to ignore. His mind keeps sliding off the questions he asks himself with unsatisfying answers.

Where am I?

_where you belong_

What is going on?

_nothing to be worried about_

What’s behind me?

_It doesn’t matter_

How did I get here?

A thread of a memory catches against something. The need to get out, to go somewhere, anywhere but the Institute. The Archivist narrows his focus and traces it back to the source.

* * *

He’s barely been back for a week and already he is beginning to long for the endless nightmares of what everyone keeps referring to as ‘his coma’. At least there he knows he is utterly powerless to stop the constant parade of horror he is forced to watch. Wakefulness gives him just enough agency to think that there might be something, _anything_ he can do to stop what is coming. Whatever changes have happened to him, Jon is still human enough for a torturous sliver of hope to keep him fighting against the things that claim him.

The subtle itch of nicotine craving becomes loud enough to give Jon the excuse he needs to leave the Archives for a moment and step outside the building. Apparently he is still human enough to fall victim to that particular addiction. His hand slips into his pocket to rest on the comforting weight of the Zippo lighter he carries. Seeing it sitting on the pile of belongings the nurse brought him at his discharge was a surprise; something of a minor miracle that it hadn’t been lost. He runs his thumb across the front, not even scratched.

The empty packet of cigarettes is an unpleasant discovery. There should still be half a pack left, he can almost see them sitting in the foil pouch. He can’t smoke the ghosts of memory, though. He’ll need a fresh pack. Jon crumples it with a sigh, ignores the feeling of resistance in his hand and the whiff of tobacco on the air.  

The reflecting sun off a passing car makes him squint and for moment he thinks the light catches on a string of cobweb above him. It’s gone before the sight fully registers and Jon starts to walk. He doesn’t remember picking this route but it’s fine, there’s a shop two blocks from here. The fresh air will do him good. The lighter is warm against his skin, he should probably put it away.

It is still in his hand as he passes by the shop. Jon’s gait falters and he starts to turn to go back. There is a subtle tug at his right hand and he falls back into step and continues on. Wasn’t he going to stop in there for something? It doesn’t matter, he has somewhere to be, even if he’s not sure where that place is.

His eyes slide off of landmarks as his feet carry him onward. He should be worried, he can’t keep track of where he is and doesn’t seem to know where he’s going. There is a door in front of him now, one he almost remembers but can’t make himself focus on. This is objectively worrying, he _should_ be worried.

He is greeted with open arms (too many, far too many, run Jon, why aren’t you _running!?_ ) and ushered to a seat at the table.

There is no reason to be worried, Jonathan Sims is an expected guest.

* * *

Jon can feel his heart beat faster in his chest as realization settles around him. He is still reluctant to turn around but he has to Know. He’s been still long enough. The Archivist turns slowly, like moving through molasses, to face what waits behind him.

A man in a black suit with thick, dark hair topped by a red bowler hat stands facing two doors on the far wall. He gives no indication that he has noticed his guest’s (prisoner’s) change in position. He is still, almost perfectly so. So still it’s like he’s not even breathing and yet…

Jon has the distinct impression of furious movement on the edges of perception. That’s wrong, it isn’t Jon that notices the nearly imperceptible threads woven through the air, it’s the Archivist. At that realization a faint second image appears somehow from underneath reality as Jon perceives it. The Archivist can see through Mr Spider’s disguise though Jon wishes he hadn’t.

“I was wondering how long it would take,” the man, Mr Spider says. “So few manage to move at all, once they’ve been snared.”

The mask he wears is still facing away, still unmoving. The Archivist has the impression of a slightly arched eyebrow. Jon’s head buzzes. An eyebrow? All of them? He wants to let go and fall back into the illusion, see the man and not the monster. That isn’t possible now, he has to Know, has to See. That is what he is now.

It’s not just Jon that prefers the illusion. Mr Spider adjusts something, tugging on his mind as nimble legs manipulate silken thread. The afterimage- the true image- wavers and the man in the bowler hat momentarily stands alone. Now that he has Seen through it, the Archivist cannot be deceived in the same way and Mr Spiders bloated abdomen and many legs peek from behind the human facade.  

The legs stop their motion and the pressure in his head eases some. “A pity,” he continues. “This would have been easier for you in that form, maybe even pleasant.” The man and his arachnid afterimage cocked his head. “Well, after a fashion anyway.”

Jon swallows thickly. “What are you going to do?”

“Why, I’m going to make my mark of course!” The man’s voice is pleasant and at odds with the the sound of clicking mouthparts that undercut his every word.

Jon’s voice pitches up an octave. “Your mark?”

Fear snakes up through his belly to wrap tightly around his chest. Jon thinks back to Martin listing off facts about spiders in an attempt to recall if they can smell fear. He can’t remember, everything that is not _right now_ is a blur to him. The outside world doesn’t exist. Not that it matters, Jon suddenly realizes, he’s dealing with the avatar of a fear god. Of course it knows his terror.

Mr Spider finally turns to face him. Jon scrunches his eyes closed and hopes that when he opens them he will be looking at a human mask of his captor. No such luck. Behind the pleasant, anonymous face that forms a gossamer screen is the many-eyed gaze of Mr Spider’s true face. Pale lips ghost a smile superimposed atop his complicated mouthparts.

“You have acquired so many more since you first brushed against the Web. A near miss, but I can be patient.” The image of the man reasserts itself, pushing the spider farther into the background as he approaches Jon. “We have an arrangement with the Eye. You’ve seen our work, I’m sure.”

Jon is frozen in place again. The desire to run sliding away from his consciousness before it can fully form. If he could only _want_ to escape… The thought slips away. He doesn’t want to escape, that’s silly! He wants to be marked by the Web--

 _No_ , that’s not _him_. The need to be still and compliant is being forced upon him. Unfortunately knowing the source of those desires doesn’t lessen the strength of their compulsion. He tries to fight against them only to end up relaxing back into the chair as Mr Spider rounds the table and takes his seat. Tears well up in Jon’s eyes and he cannot raise a hand to wipe them away.

“What are you d--”

The finger that Mr Spider presses against his lips is boney and covered in coarse sensory hairs. “Shhh, Archivist. I’ve promised to protect you and I intend to.” A hungry grin spreads across his features. “From everything but myself.”

The hand stays on the Archivist’s face as he jerks away as much as the chair allows. It follows farther than the human version could reach, bleeding into a slender, jointed limb. It pushes past his gasping lips and presses down on the Archivist’s tongue. Jon brings his arms up to swat it away only to have them pinned by another pair of Mr Spider’s legs.

The monster poorly disguised as a man leans forward to better enjoy Jon’s struggles. He rests his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers together, multifaceted eyes focused forward. Pedipalps twitch eagerly behind the facade of the smiling man as the Archivist fights against the intrusion in his mouth. The more he pushes his tongue against it the more Mr Spider seems to be enjoying himself. Another leg runs up his chest in an almost playful manner. Jon spits a noise of protest around the obstruction when it pinches his nipple.

Whatever compulsion kept him still before is gone for now. Jon struggles and screams as _things_ prod and stroke and grope from all sides. He has a fleeting thought that there must be more than eight points of contact on his body but does his best not to dwell on such things.

Tears are flowing freely down his face as his captor works his tarsus in and out of Jon’s mouth. Claws prick the back of his neck where Mr Spider runs his hands through Jon’s hair to hold his head in place. A second thick spider leg pushes in alongside the first. Mr Spider chuckles when Jon tries to bite down to stop it then shivers as his sensory hairs map the flesh of the Archivist’s lips and tongue.

“The one that got away,” he sighs wistfully, brushing a tear from Jon’s cheek and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Elias insisted I maintain my distance as part of our agreement as allies. ‘Look but don’t touch,’ he said.”

The Archivist sobs as a multitude of legs tickle across his body. He struggles uselessly against the legs that hold him in place. One of the legs pulls free of his mouth to run a wet line down his cheek and rest on the underside of his jaw. It tilts his face first to the right then left for Mr Spider to appreciate.  

The harder fight is in his mind. Thoughts push against him, urge him to _relax_ , to _stop fighting_ , and _enjoy the attention_ being shown to him by his gracious host. It would be so easy to give in and let them carry him away.

“The alliance is far older than even Elias. Now that he has been sent away...” The image of the man rises from his seat and circles the table to stand in front of Jon. Strong limbs push his legs apart and he palms the bulge he finds between them. “I am no longer forced to be simply an observer.”

Jon tries to squirm away from the hand squeezing his half-hard cock through his pants. He tries protest that the state of him has nothing to with arousal. That it’s all fear and friction, no matter what thoughts skitter across his mind, he doesn't actually want this. His hitched moan of pleasure undercuts the revulsion Jon so desperately wants to feel.

The intrusive thoughts finally overwhelm him. His muscles relax and he stops fighting the thing in his mouth. Jon’s lips close greedily around it, taking it deeper until it hits the back of his throat and he swallows around it.

“That’s the spirit,” Mr Spider whispers in his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

He pulls back enough to allow Jon a breath before pushing deeper. When he closes his eyes, Jon can almost imagine a cluster of fingers trailing past his lips and not-- The second hand teases along his neck, threatening to apply pressure to his windpipe. Time drops away as Mr Spider lazily fucks his mouth.

The hand between his legs disappears and Jon’s hips to buck upwards seeking the lost sensation. He squirms against the arms holding him in place, a whine slipping past his lips. The Archivist opens eyes to see Mr Spider has shed his disguise completely and is standing before him in all his horrific glory.

Before he can process what is happening, Jon is bodily lifted from the chair and slammed face down on the table. His arms are wrenched behind his back as something strong and sticky wraps around his wrists. The bindings don’t stop there, he struggles as silk encircles him from shoulder to navel, pinning his arms against his sides. Jon manages to get his feet under him and attempts to stand only to be forced down by a firm limb on the back of his neck.

A hissing, inhuman voice comes from above and behind him. “I enjoy a good struggle but you should know better than to fight me, Archivist.” A trio of tarsal claws trace along the back of his neck and up through his hair.

Jon cries out as his trousers are yanked roughly down past his knees. He renews his struggles as Mr Spider settles in behind him.

_behave_

The Archivist is aware enough to know his body obeys a new master. Fresh tears burn in his eyes as Mr Spider runs limbs covered in coarse sensory hairs down his legs and along his backside. He can’t stop himself from continuing to explore the piece of Mr Spider in his mouth with his tongue.

“You’re the one that got away from me, the one still trying to escape the eye. We have to make sure that doesn't happen; that you know where you belong and who you serve.” The voice is so close, Jon can feel the pedipalps brush against his ear. “You're so willful. You need to be shown your place.”

Mr Spider slowly draws his hand from Jon’s mouth with a contented hum, pausing to tease along his lips. The questions the Archivist wants to ask refuse to resolve themselves in Jon’s brain. He focuses instead on sensation of the slicked limb working at his entrance as questions turn to quiet moans.

“We appreciate you and yours working so hard to stop the Unknowing,” Mr Spider practically purrs.

Jon bites back a groan as he is breached. Mr Spider presents him with another arm (hand? leg?), pressing it against lips that gratefully open to receive it. He alternates between bobbing down on the thing with his mouth and pushing back to fuck himself against the limb behind.

The claws lingering in his hair tighten roughly halting his motion. “There will be no such interface against the Silken Puppeteer.”

The hand pulls away from his face, he is expected to answer.

Jon is confused. Why would he want to do something like that? The Unknowing is one thing, obviously that had be stopped. But to go against the Web’s ritual? Certainly not. He opens his mouth to say as much but the words remain half formed and trapped in his throat. A nagging presence within the Archivist won’t let him respond. There must be a reason why.

He is trying to focus on that question when a second limb presses against him, erasing that train of thought entirely. It teases along his outside edge before working its way in alongside the first. The stretch is almost unbearable yet his cock throbs in time with his racing heart. He shifts his hips but that only serves to frustrate him more.

The claw twists against his scalp. “Will there, Archivist? We will succeed or fail on our own. Just as preparations for the Watcher's Crown will remain unaffected from us.”

Jon’s whole body shudders as a limb brushes against his prostate then goes still.

“Do we have an agreement?” Mr Spider whispers in his ear.

Jon can’t think straight. No only are his thoughts not his own, but his body is caught on the tipping point between agony and ecstasy. He can’t tell anymore what he wants and what he is being forced to want.

He needs--

“Answer me and I will grant you release.”

Jon’s fists clench in frustration and he pulls against their silk bindings. Release can mean so many things, the release of an orgasm, the release of his bonds, but the sweet release of death seems the most likely based on the source.

But maybe not.

He’s so tantalizingly close though he knows he’s not allowed to come yet. He desperately wants to grind against the table but wont. He needs to behave for Mr Spider to earn his reward.

“What kind of release?” Jon manages to force through gritted teeth.

The voice clicks against his ear. "That depends on your answer, Archivist."

A scream tears from the Archivist’s throat as Mr Spider moves again inside him. The earlier slow explorations abandoned in favor of a brutal pace that threatens to tear him in half. Every thrust ignites sparks at the edges of Jon’s vision until all he can see is white.

He doesn't know if he’s being punished or rewarded for his answer, he can’t even remember what he said. The only thing the Archivist knows as fingers push into his mouth and hands tighten around his throat is that one way or another, this will all be over soon.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Choose your own ending!
> 
> For Jon to have a smoke and a many legged cuddle - sprinkle yourself in fairy dust and use that as your happy thought to fly off into the stars
> 
> For Mr Spider to have a tasty snack - dive headfirst into hell and tell the devil I'll see him soon
> 
> For an unspecified third option - turn to the blank page at the end of this book and write your own, don't forget to share with the class!


End file.
